Aching to touch him, she lifted her leg and stroked his arousal with the sensitive inside of her knee. He halted his ministrations long enough to moan and undulate, moistening her skin. Nipping at her rib cage, Randy licked a path down to her navel, then grasped her hips and splayed his hands over her waist. He grazed his thumbs over the area around her mound and blew gently into her curls, torturing her.
She gathered fistfuls of the comforter to leverage her body higher, closer to any contact that would grant her relief from the intense pressure building in her belly. “Randy,” she urged. “Please…please.”
With the gentleness of a longtime lover, he combed the moist curls with his fingers, grazing the pearl of her desire until she shivered. When he slid one, then two fingers inside her, she gasped and tore at the covers, arching into his strong hand. He explored her tenderly at first, then plunged farther and harder, readying her for later, she knew. She followed his rhythm, thrusting to meet his strokes while he whispered erotic words over her stomach. The tension in her body swelled with each expressive move of his hand, and when he lowered his thumb to the tiny knob in her folds, she cried out. Her body hummed with burgeoning release. Just when she thought her muscles would fail, a flood of relief crashed over her. She called his name, and bore down on the resistance he offered as she descended from her rocking orgasm.
With great restraint, Randy waited until she had quieted, until the convulsions around his wet fingers had ceased. Then he withdrew his hand carefully and kissed his way from her navel to her ear. Frankie recovered and ran her fingers up and down his spine, her short nails biting into his flesh with enough pressure to heighten his senses. In fact, her every touch made him harder and more eager to make love to her. She opened her knees and he sighed against her cheek at the overwhelming invitation. Maintaining his hold around her waist, Randy stretched and retrieved a condom from a drawer in the nightstand, drawing away only long enough to roll it on.
Her eyes were soft and luminous when he lowered himself against her. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, caressing her cheek. He probed at the threshold to his fulfillment and she opened herself to him. With one long, slow stroke, he entered her, the sensation of her body closing around him so exquisite, he set his jaw to maintain control. Masculine pride welled when Frankie’s lashes fluttered and her mouth opened in a silent gasp. He paused a few seconds, absorbing the tight cushion of her femaleness, then pulled back and experienced the thrill of joining her body again, this time eliciting a joyous little sound from her. Randy kissed her chin, her cheek, her ear—anywhere but her mouth because he wanted her lips free to voice the pleasure she experienced.
As for himself, every thrust brought a higher plane of satisfaction and every withdrawal a keener sense of anticipation. He clasped her hands and entwined their fingers, holding her arms above her head, excited by the way she held his gaze throughout. Her eyes were so brilliantly blue, the color could only be natural. Wide and expressive, they echoed every nuance of enjoyment she uttered.
Randy felt his body boiling close to release and strove to extend the lovemaking by slowing down. But when Frankie’s murmurings became more frantic and she tightened around him in another climax, he lost control and shuddered, falling into her again and again. He sagged against her, feeling more vulnerable in those few seconds than he dared admit. In fact, even before he regained his composure, Randy was already wondering how he’d say goodbye to this wonderfully complex woman who made him feel alive again. And how far he’d have to flee and how many bars he’d have to buy to put yet another life-altering event behind him.
FRANKIE BLINKED into the light blazing above, then shielded her face and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Two thirty-five in the morning. Randy lay asleep beside her on top of the comforter, and despite the slight chill in the air, she felt warm because his body still touched hers in so many places.
A flush enveloped her as she remembered their lovemaking session, the intensity of which must have completed her exhaustion of the disturbing day, since she didn’t remember leaving the bed afterward. But one quick look at the man next to her told her he had at least disposed of the condom before falling asleep.
Seeking a drink of water, she disentangled herself from Randy’s grasp and left his bed. Immediately, her muscles complained and her nipples budded from the coolness. She scooped up the T-shirt he’d given her on the way to the bathroom and pulled it over her head. Inside the tiny room, she cupped her hand and drank from the tap water. She avoided the mirror as she extinguished the bathroom light because she didn’t want to invite self-analysis at the moment.
But as she stared at Randy, lying asleep on his side, his arms out to accommodate her when she returned, she acknowledged that, considering the circumstances, spending a few seconds taking stock seemed appropriate.
Two thirty-five in the morning on an island she shouldn’t be on, in a bed she shouldn’t be in, with a man she shouldn’t be with…and she’d never felt more content.
How utterly depressing.
11
FRANKIE AWOKE in the early-morning light to the sound of the shower going in the next room. She sat up and pushed her hands through her hair as images of their lovemaking bombarded her. Leaning on her knees, she sighed. Now what? Act casual, as if one-night stands weren’t a novelty for her? Pack up her shopping bags and be gone by the time he emerged? Join him in the shower? She brightened at the last option, then stopped and shook herself. What was she thinking?
She climbed from the bed and straightened the covers, carefully stretching sore muscles as she reached, her mind whirling. Her search for the black canvas bag that held the scavenged pack of cigarettes ended at the living-room sofa, where she stopped to appreciate the efficient layout of his home in the pinkish glow of the morning sun.
The living area consisted of the gray couch and two worn navy leather chairs grouped around a sleek entertainment center that featured a television, stereo system and an extensive selection of CD’s. The pale walls were empty, save for a couple of black-and-white landscape photographs attractively matted and framed in silver hues. Assuming the furniture and decor were his idea, she approved of his minimalist style—functional furniture with clean lines in cool shades of white, gray and blue.
The far end of the long room housed a white kitchenette with a breakfast bar, but the focal point of the room, surely the star feature of the house, was the panoramic view of—she squinted to get her bearings from the sun—the Atlantic Ocean. Impulsively, she opened the partially drawn vertical blinds to reveal a virtual wall of screened, sliding glass doors. Frankie sighed at the glorious display of natural beauty and idly entertained the thought of waking up in paradise every day with a man like Randy Tate. An absurd notion, she knew, aware that the black cloud hanging over her career at the moment would make any alternative, no matter how preposterous, seem viable.
With unlit cigarette in hand, she was hesitant at first to look past the surfaces of the white kitchen counters for a light. Then she scoffed. Randy had shared his body with her—surely he wouldn’t begrudge her a match. Gingerly, she opened a couple of drawers, finding surprisingly neat contents of utensils and emergency supplies: batteries, candles, flashlight, and yes, matches. She opened one of the sliding glass doors, partially closed the screen behind her and stepped outside with Randy’s oversize T-shirt flapping around her knees.
Protected by a scalloped awning, the six-foot-wide balcony ran the width of the cottage. Tropical trees and vines effectively screened out neighbors on either side, although she caught a glimpse of the B&B to the right. The roofs of many buildings were visible between Randy’s place and the faraway shore, but the elevation and landscape lent the perception of a private view.
The sturdy iron balcony could easily accommodate a table and chairs. Instead, a single director’s chair with a faded blue seat cover sat in the farthest corner at an angle, suggesting that he often perused the horizon alone. She could picture him sitting in the c
hair holding a beer, with his feet propped up on the railing. Since he probably could have his pick of women if he were looking for a companion, the fact that he seemed to revel in his hedonistic bachelorhood confirmed her suspicion that Randy Tate was not the kind of man who valued commitment and responsibility. She wondered how many women had made the mistake of falling for him only to discover that sobering fact.
Even at this distance, the roar of the ocean thundered in her ears as she leaned on the metal railing. She smelled and tasted salt in the breeze that ruffled the ends of her hair and made it difficult to light the cigarette. At last, though, the tip caught and she took a minty drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the air as she considered her newest predicament.
She was becoming emotionally invested in a man she hadn’t even met this time yesterday. Frankie ground her teeth in frustration. She knew that her chaotic condition could be attributed to her current state of vulnerability, but since when did the heart listen to reason? The systems engineer in her could retrace her actions and reactions since the moment her bag was stolen and predict this morning’s outcome just as surely as if she herself were programmed, but all the motivation and excuses and rationalizations didn’t make the fallout any easier to deal with.
“Coffee?”
She’d been so engrossed in her self-examination, she hadn’t heard Randy emerge. Wearing only black swim trunks, he held two mugs of coffee, one toward her. His hair was slicked back and he smelled like soap and talc. His expression was neither sultry nor overly friendly, simply polite. Would he gloss over their intimacy with glibness? Had their lovemaking meant so little to him?
“It’s not hazelnut, and I was out of cinnamon,” he added with a hint of a smile. “But I added sugar and a little cream.”
Her pulse kicked up, sending adrenaline pumping after the nicotine she had ingested. Why not add caffeine to the mix? “Thank you,” she said, reaching for the cup. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
He shrugged. “Bartenders remember what people drink.” His gaze slid over her once. “I can whip up an omelette if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I rarely eat breakfast.” How odd to think that he knew what sounds she made during lovemaking, but not that she typically skipped the first meal of the day. She sipped her coffee, then smiled awkwardly, her gaze landing on his arm. “Where did you get the tattoo?”
Randy glanced down and flexed his arm as if he rarely noticed the swirling design. He smiled wryly. “A local artist ran up a tab he couldn’t pay and offered to trade.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I don’t dislike it,” he hedged, turning to face the scenery in blatant dismissal of the subject.
So much for conversation. She puffed on her cigarette, careful to exhale in the opposite direction. Neither of them spoke, and Frankie was beginning to think she might have imagined their previous intimacy.
Lifting his mug to his mouth, he said, “Looks like the day’s going to be a beaut.”
“Yes, beautiful,” she agreed.
After several seconds of silence, he cleared his throat. “Not a cloud in the sky.”
“Uh-huh, cloudless,” she confirmed, nodding.
More quietness ensued, then he said, “And maybe enough of a breeze this afternoon to catch a sail.”
“Maybe.”
The silence stretched taut between them. They turned to face each other and spoke at the same time.
“Frankie—”
“Randy—”
“—about last night—”
“—you don’t have to—”
“—we were simply—”
“—say anything—”
“—caught up in the moment—”
“—things got out of hand—”
“—at least it’s out of our systems—”
“—it was just one of those things—”
“—and won’t happen again.”
“—and won’t happen again.” She stared at him, part of her relieved, part of her disappointed. To cover, she turned back to the railing and took a deep drink of coffee. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the horizon had reclaimed his attention also.
A fishing boat bobbed into view on its way back from an early-morning jaunt. In the trees flanking the balcony, two birds sang to each other, warbling tirelessly it seemed to Frankie—they obviously hadn’t had sex yet.
“What are your plans today?” he asked after another significant pause.
And just like that, Frankie realized, they had officially dismissed the mind-blowing love they’d made as an incidental occurrence—like a flat tire or a dental appointment. Apparently the experience hadn’t been such a revelation for him. She tapped her cigarette ash over the edge and took a short drag. “Back to the police station, I suppose. And then I have to pick up replacement traveler’s checks.”
He nodded, still looking toward the horizon.
“And check in with—I mean, at home,” she stammered, not wanting to even think about Oscar right now. But her original ship would be docking in Miami today, so she should at least call her parents and let them know she was okay before her cousin Emily relayed some kind of embellished horror story after touching down in Cincinnati.
“You can use my phone to call…whomever you need to,” he offered, his tone abrupt.
She nodded. “Do you mind if I shower first?” After knowing each other intimately, they had regressed to tight politeness.
“Not at all. In fact, I’ll phone the police station while you’re getting ready.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
RANDY HUNG UP the phone and exhaled in a mixture of frustration and relief. Frankie’s bag hadn’t yet surfaced at the police station and Tippy hadn’t left any messages at the bar. One minute he was resigned to be rid of her as soon as possible, and the next he was stupidly happy her departure would be delayed a few more hours.
Last night after they’d made love and she’d fallen asleep, he’d lain awake with the overhead light on to stare at her, to try to get his fill of her. He’d memorized every contour and freckle on her face—how her left eyebrow arched slightly higher than the right one, how her eyelashes were dark at the base and gold at the tip, and how her nose twitched in her sleep. She had gravitated toward him, and he couldn’t resist the opportunity to hold her close without her knowing and, consequently, perhaps reading more into his actions than was warranted. After all, this uncommon attraction was simply a novelty, undoubtedly heightened by the knowledge that their time together was limited.
Since the shower still ran in the bathroom, Randy gauged it fairly safe to return to the bedroom and finish dressing. Telling himself he was not upgrading his dress code on Frankie’s account, he withdrew a new red T-shirt from the bottom of his drawer and donned the only pair of denim shorts he owned that were not raveled cutoffs.
He tamed his hair with a palmful of gel, recalling a time when he visited a barber every two weeks to keep his hair from touching his collar. And the earring and tattoo? Sometimes he wondered if he’d defaced his body upon coming to the Keys to seal his resolve to never return again to staid corporate life. He frowned ruefully. Of course, now tattoos were all the rage and earrings no longer the sign of a rebel—go figure.
The water shut off, cutting into his thoughts. Unwilling to test his willpower to resist her if she came out wearing a towel and smelling like the sun, he scooted into the living room. To keep from thinking about Frankie being naked only a few steps away, he sank into one of the leather armchairs and flipped on the television. The set stayed tuned almost exclusively to the cable sports station. He watched ten minutes of a middleweight boxing match before growing restless. His eyes kept darting to the mirror hanging on the wall adjacent to the bedroom door, a silly reaction since the reflection revealed nothing, and he’d already seen, touched and tasted her bare body in most places.
Ra
ndy glanced back to the TV. Slowly, he began to flip through the stations, mindful of the network identifier in the bottom right corner of the screen. When a twenty-four-hour news station appeared, he hesitated and moved on, then switched back. Two ribbons of stock symbols and corresponding prices moved across the bottom of the screen, sharing space with a market-summary update—the numbers startlingly high—and a breaking news event in a tiny screen in the top corner. When a live broadcast from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange came on, he turned up the volume and leaned forward, his pulse bumping slightly higher.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Frankie said, breezing into the living room and flashing him a smile. “Did you get through to the police station?”
He cut off the television abruptly and stood. She wore what looked like a floral wraparound skirt, but when she moved, the flap revealed shorts underneath. A bright pink shirt suited her complexion, and she’d twisted her hair into a loose knot, contained with some kind of comb-claw thing. She wore no makeup that he could tell, and her skin positively glowed. She looked happily beautiful, giving no indication whatsoever that their night together had given her pause to reevaluate her life—after all, her life had purpose, meaning.
“Your bag hasn’t turned up yet,” he said, hating the sudden frown that overtook her face. She’d been hoping to leave today, he knew. “But the day’s not over,” he added.
She nodded absently, folding emptied shopping bags. “Would you mind if I made a phone call?”
“Not at all,” he replied, gesturing toward the phone. He moved toward the kitchen under the pretense of straightening up, in order to give her privacy. Indeed, with her back turned to him, he could barely hear her words and hummed to himself to try to drown out her voice altogether.
“…fine…I’m positive…police station…”
She was obviously trying to reassure Oscar that she had survived the night. Randy swallowed a sour taste in his mouth, telling himself how ridiculous it was to be jealous. After all, if the guy really cared about her, he was probably going crazy.
Club Cupid Page 12
